Seeker, The

by Brindle, J. T.

  ‘He’d had hardly any sleep and there he was, up with the larks and getting the kids their breakfast. He was full of himself. Then, at half past seven, he got ready to leave. I told him it was still early, and he said how he had a lot of paperwork to get through before he started his appointments.’ She paused, going back over the morning’s events in her mind. ‘He doesn’t normally leave home until about eight thirty, sometimes eight o’clock if he has urgent appointments.’

  ‘And you accepted that?’

  ‘Well, yes. I know how busy he’s been lately, and I was beginning to think it really was work that was playing on his mind. When he left as early as that this morning, I didn’t really give it a second thought.’ She gave a wry little smile. ‘Until now.’

  ‘So now you suspect it was something other than work.’ May went through it with her. ‘Last night he had something on his mind, so urgent that he couldn’t sleep. And this morning he couldn’t wait to get out of the house. He went to the office, left a note, with no explanation, and now he’s gone off, nobody knows where. So…’

  Angry now, Libby finished the sentence for her. ‘So where the hell is he? More to the point, who is he with? And what could be so important that he would neglect his work for it?’ Her heart sank. ‘I’m beginning to think you’re right, May. It has to be a woman.’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him,’ May said. ‘He’ll tell you unless he’s got something to hide.’

  Libby shook her head. ‘I have asked him, time and again, and he keeps shutting me out. Something tells me it isn’t another woman, but I can’t be sure, that’s the awful thing, and if he doesn’t want to confide in me, there’s no trust. And if there’s no trust, there’s no point in going on.’ She never dreamed she would be saying it, and it hurt like hell, but Dave had left her little choice.

  ‘You really do love him, don’t you?’ May had not realised just how devoted Libby was to him.

  ‘I’ve always loved him, and I can’t imagine a life without him, but I’ve been through this before with him,’ she said regretfully, ‘and I don’t mean to go through it again. I will ask him, just once more. I hope, for the sake of the kids and our marriage, that he’ll be honest with me. Because, however much I love him, if I go this time, I go for good.’

  Dave had been driving for almost three hours when he spotted his petrol was running low. About another hour before he ran out altogether, he calculated. That was the last thing he needed. As he came out of Swindon, he kept one eye on the road and the other looking for a garage along the way.

  Six miles or so on, he saw a Little Chef sign high up on the hill. ‘Hopefully, there’ll be a garage there. I ought to look at the map too. I need to be sure I’m heading in the right direction.’

  He sighed with relief as he neared the Little Chef and saw there was a garage alongside. Thankfully, he pulled in. Climbing out of the car, he glanced at his watch. ‘Jesus! It’s almost midday.’ His stomach rumbled with hunger, and his mouth felt dry as sandpaper. ‘I’d die for a cuppa,’ he groaned, ‘but I have to get on. I don’t want to be late home, or Libby will be getting all the wrong ideas.’

  He filled the tank and checked the water. That done, he went to pay. At the counter a middle-aged man with a kindly face tapped the computer. ‘Thirty-two pounds, if you please.’

  After passing over the notes, Dave asked, ‘How far to the West Bay?’

  ‘An hour if you’re on a good run,’ came the reply. ‘Sometimes it takes me twice that if the traffic’s heavy.’

  ‘You live there, do you?’

  ‘Born there, and raised three children the same. No lovelier place, as far as I’m concerned, and I’ve travelled most of the world. I was in the Royal Navy, d’you see? But West Bay is home and always will be.’ He was a man with few regrets. ‘Three generations of my family lived in the house I’m in now,’ he explained. ‘God willing, when I leave there, it’ll be feet first in a box.’

  Outside, Dave checked the map. ‘Say it takes me an hour and a half by the time I’ve found the nursing home. Maybe an hour there, and then back on the road…’ He totted up the time it would take before he was back home with Libby. ‘With a bit of luck and a following wind I should be home before six, and nobody any the wiser.’ He knew he’d have to tell Libby what he was up to some time, but not yet. Not until he’d got to the bottom of it all.

  Turning the car round, he looked up at the sign depicting a steaming cup of coffee and a hearty breakfast. ‘I’m hungry enough to eat the bloody sign!’ he groaned. ‘Oh, to hell with it, I can spare twenty minutes for a cuppa, if nothing else.’

  Luckily the cafe was nearly empty. He ordered tea and a bacon roll, and was satisfied that would hold him until evening.

  Half an hour later he was on his way again. The traffic was thinner now, so the half-hour stop had been fully worthwhile. All the same, he speeded along the dual carriageway, the speedometer pointing above the limit. ‘Hope there aren’t any traffic cops on my tail.’ He glanced in the mirror. There weren’t, so he quickly used up the empty carriageway.

  Just outside West Bay a lorry had overturned, spewing its entire cargo of wooden pallets and causing the following traffic to jam up for some five miles.

  ‘This is all I need!’ Dave looked at the map. There was no other way in. He had no choice but to sit and inch his way along with the others. Turning on the radio, he monitored the intermittent reports on the traffic news.

  Precious time passed. He checked his watch. ‘Ten past two. Come on! Come on!’ Other drivers, frustrated, were turning round, making dangerous manoeuvres to get out of the hold-up. ‘Silly buggers,’ Dave grumbled. ‘But at least they have a choice. Not me, though. I need to get through. I’ve come all this way and I’m not turning back without doing what I came here to do.’

  Another half-hour passed before slowly but surely the traffic began to move on. As he passed the scene of the accident, Dave was appalled at the damage. It looked as if the whole load had shifted sideways and taken the lorry with it; the tail end of it had smashed into the side of a van, which was now being loaded on to a breakdown vehicle. Most of the pallets were matchwood on the road, with the remainder piled across the pavement. The lorry was still belly up, but cordoned off until it could be righted and taken away.

  To Dave’s dismay, it was almost three o’clock by the time he located Fairleigh Nursing Home.

  Taking out the slip of paper given to him by Rosemary Dwight’s old neighbour, he checked the name and address written there. ‘Yes,’ he popped the paper back in his pocket, ‘this is the place all right.’ A large, modern building, surrounded by beautiful old oak trees and with a great expanse of lawn either side, Fairleigh Nursing Home was a pleasant-looking place.

  Not without some trepidation, Dave rang the bell. He felt like an intruder, afraid he might be caught and turned away.

  After a few moments, a rather large and puffy-faced woman opened the door. She just stood there, not saying anything, obviously expecting Dave to explain himself, which he did, with the utmost charm.

  ‘Rosemary Dwight,’ she repeated, looking him over with her little eyes and thinking what a catch he must be for some woman. ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I was given this address by Mrs Goodson, an old neighbour of hers from Ampthill. I need to talk to Rosemary, and she said I would be welcome. She also said to send her love.’

  ‘So you’re a friend.’

  ‘Yes.’ He hated lying but felt it was excusable in this instance.

  ‘You’d better come in then.’

  As they made their way to the conservatory, the woman made up for her previous silence. Chatting all the way, she told him, ‘It’s such a pity Mrs Goodson can’t come any more. Rosemary does miss her. But then of course Mrs Goodson must be in her late eighties now. She’s some three or four years older than Rosemary, I believe. Anyway, she used to visit regularly – her son brought her, you know, had this wonderful old car. Still, I’m sure Rosemary w
ill be glad to have news of her old friend.’

  As they neared the conservatory, she confided softly, ‘Of course Rosemary had that bad stroke last year, but I’m sure you already know that. Only she can’t seem to concentrate as well as she could, and sometimes her mind wanders. No staying power, if you know what I mean.’ She smiled winsomely. ‘Try not to tire her.’

  ‘Of course.’ He was a little apprehensive, hoping against hope that Rosemary Dwight would be able to throw some light on what happened on the night of the accident. She would need to tap into her memory and then convey the information to him, and from what this woman was saying, that might be asking too much.

  With his heart in his boots, Dave followed the fat woman into the conservatory.

  Two people were in there, a strange, sombre-faced man of middle years, who was hunched in a chair with his legs tucked beneath him. He brought his gaze to Dave as he walked in and from then on watched him like a hawk.

  In the far corner, seated on a high-backed chair, sat an old woman, a small, pretty thing with silver, wavy hair and legs so short her feet barely touched the ground. Dave thought she looked like one of Daisy’s dolls.

  As they approached, she looked up, surprising Dave with her startling blue eyes. ‘Hello,’ she squeaked, sounding comically like a polly parrot. ‘Who are you?’

  The fat woman sat down beside her. ‘This is a friend of Mrs Goodson. You remember Mrs Goodson, don’t you, dear?’

  Rosemary was still observing Dave. ‘Who are you?’ she insisted, as though having forgotten she’d already asked that.

  ‘I’m Dave Walters,’ he answered. ‘I’ve come a long way to see you, Rosemary.’

  She smiled, a soft and very pretty smile that made Dave feel humble. ‘Come a long way… come a long way.’ She sang-song it several times before the fat lady stopped her.

  ‘Mr Walters wants to talk to you, Rosemary. Be a good girl and I’ll fetch you a glass of milk.’ Turning to Dave she asked, ‘Tea or coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, please. Black and strong. Two sugars.’

  Dave waited until the fat woman had gone out of earshot before he spoke to Rosemary. ‘I went to the house in Ampthill where you used to live,’ he told her. ‘I began to think I would never track you down, but Mrs Goodson kindly told me where I might find you.’ He didn’t go into the detail of how he had had to work very hard to convince that good woman he meant Rosemary no harm.

  The blue eyes stared at him. ‘Mrs Goodson,’ she murmured. ‘My friend.’ The eyes filled with tears. ‘Oh dear, I’ve lost her.’

  ‘No.’ Dave was at odds with himself. He needed to talk about the accident, to find out what Rosemary saw that night, and here the poor thing was, visibly distressed about her friend not coming to see her any more. ‘You haven’t lost her,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t been able to come and visit because she had a bad fall, but I’m sure she’ll find a way to visit you when summer comes.’

  ‘What did you say?’ The eyes were vague. So pretty.

  ‘I need to ask you about something that happened a long time ago.’ He spoke slowly, letting each word sink in. ‘When you lived in Ampthill. You were out walking your dog. There was an accident and someone was killed.’

  A light dawned. ‘The young woman, so lovely.’ Raising her hands, she brushed them down her hair and over her shoulders. ‘Long hair. Oh, she did have such long, thick hair.’

  ‘What colour was it, Rosemary?’ In his mind’s eye he saw the young woman in the rain, in the woods, in his heart and soul.

  ‘Mrs Goodson doesn’t visit any more.’

  ‘Rosemary.’ Taking her hand in his, he gently urged, ‘The young woman who was killed. You saw her, didn’t you? She was lovely, that’s what you said, and she had long, thick hair. Tell me what else you remember, Rosemary. What colour was her hair?’

  ‘I touched her hair.’

  ‘What colour was it?’ He felt he was so close. He wanted her to describe the dead young woman in every small detail. Her hair. Her clothes. Even the smell of her, for whenever she appeared to him, the fragrance of fresh roses came like a cloud to fog his brain. ‘You must tell me,’ he pleaded. ‘Please, Rosemary, tell me what you remember.’

  The desperation in his voice seemed to jolt her. She turned to stare at him, and there was such fear in her face that he thought for one awful minute she was about to scream. ‘Ssh,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all right. Take your time. It’s all right.’

  Suddenly her mood changed. Holding out her hands, she rubbed thumbs and fingers together, a look of disgust on her face. ‘Wet.’ She closed her eyes, the fingers madly working together. ‘Sticky.’

  ‘I understand, Rosemary.’ Though he didn’t understand at all. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘Blood!’ Wide-eyed, she put out her arms and gestured all round the room. ‘Everywhere.’

  ‘What was she like?’ He felt excited. She was remembering. Thank God, she was remembering!

  Rosemary didn’t heed his question. Instead she frantically hugged herself, her face suffused with horror. ‘Blood everywhere!’ She began screaming, pointing at the wall as if she was talking to someone there. ‘Go away. Don’t you touch her!’

  ‘Rosemary?’

  ‘I told him. I did!’

  ‘Who, Rosemary? Who did you tell?’

  She was sobbing loudly now. ‘The man!’ She was frantic. ‘I don’t know if he heard.’ Appealing to Dave, she pleaded, ‘Did he hear? Did I do it right?’

  ‘Tell me what you said, and I’ll be able to decide if you did it right.’

  Suspicious now, she hunched her shoulders and stared round the room. In a voice that shook him rigid, she rasped harshly, ‘Go away. Leave her alone!’

  ‘Listen to me, Rosemary.’ He felt out of his depth. ‘I promise you, no one is going to be hurt.’

  His assurances seemed to comfort her. With round, wet eyes, she whispered, ‘I held her. In my arms.’ Cradling her arms together, she rocked them back and forth. ‘She told me a secret. I never told the others. Only him. “Tell him,” she said, and then she closed her eyes.’ She began whimpering. ‘Blood everywhere.’

  Dave persevered. ‘What was the secret, Rosemary?’

  ‘Can’t tell.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell?’

  ‘The other one!’ Fearfully glancing about the room, she held on to his coat lapels. ‘Watching me.’

  He was taken aback by the things Rosemary was saying. He wondered how much of it was real and how much the product of an over-fertile imagination. ‘The young woman who died. The one you said you held. What did she say to you?’

  ‘Black hair. She had black hair, like midnight.’

  He sat bolt upright. ‘What did she say, Rosemary?’

  ‘The other one… watching.’ She began wailing, like a soul in torment. ‘Don’t let her hurt me.’ She was looking beyond him now, at someone else. ‘I don’t want her to hurt me!’

  When Dave turned, it was to see the fat lady, red with anger. ‘Whatever have you been saying to her?’ She rushed in and put down the tray. ‘What is it, Rosemary dear?’ she purred, hugging the old woman and scowling at Dave as if he was some kind of monster. ‘You’d better go,’ she snapped. ‘Now!’

  Apologising but desperately sorry he had learned only half-truths, Dave found his way through the rooms and out into the cold, biting air. He leaned against the wall, fists clenched. ‘I almost had it!’ he groaned, banging his fist against the wall. ‘Another minute and I know she would have told me.’

  A thin, unpleasant voice broke his chain of thought. ‘I haven’t got a watch.’

  Dave looked round and there stood the sombre-faced man who had been in the room when he was talking to Rosemary. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘If you give me your watch, I’ll tell you something.’

  ‘What can you tell me?’

  ‘The watch first.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I won’t tell about the dead woman. I know, ’cause Rosem
ary told me.’ He grinned and there wasn’t a straight tooth in his head. ‘When I first came here, she used to sit with me in the kitchen. She told me everything. She’s forgotten now, though. She’s too old.’

  Dave ripped off his watch and held it out. ‘What did she tell you?’ When the other man made a grab for the watch, he snatched it back. ‘Tell me first, then you can have it.’ He suspected this strange fellow might be lying but he had nowhere else to turn.

  ‘The woman’s hair was black, her eyes too. Rosemary said she cried for her because she was too beautiful to die like that.’

  ‘All of it. Tell me everything or the deal’s off.’

  ‘Rosemary cuddled her, and the woman told her things.’ He looked down to the ground, as if afraid to go on.

  ‘What things?’ Grabbing him by the shoulders, Dave held him there. ‘The watch is yours if you tell me the truth. I’ll know if you’re lying,’ he bluffed. ‘One lie, that’s all, and I’m taking the watch with me.’

  With a lopsided grin on his face, the fellow put his hand over the watch, laying claim. ‘She asked about the man. When Rosemary told her he was badly hurt but wasn’t dead, she said, “Tell him I’ll come back for him. Tell him I will never leave him.” ’

  ‘God Almighty!’ An icy chill ran down his back.

  The other man tugged at the watch. ‘That’s what she said and now I want my watch.’

  ‘Who was the other one… the one who “watched”?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Why is Rosemary so afraid?’

  ‘She never told me that.’

  ‘Remember what I said? One lie and I take the watch with me.’

  ‘Lenny!’ The fat woman raced out of the building and caught him by the scruff of the neck. ‘What are you doing here, you bad boy?’ After ordering Dave off, she marched Lenny to the front door.

  Dave got into his car and was about to pull away when she tapped on the window. ‘I believe this is yours,’ she said, showing him the watch.

  Thinking he had made a reasonable swap, Dave shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Who said it was mine?’

  ‘Lenny did.’ Thrusting the watch through the open window, she snapped, ‘He may be a bit soft in the head but he’s not a liar. You can always rely on Lenny to tell the absolute truth, even if it gets him into hot water.’